17
The verry next spring that that fiddle playd
Was, Blest be Sir John, my own true-love!
18
The very next spring that that fiddle playd
Was, Burn my sister for her sins!
42. Written at first my black heeld shoes.
122. swain.
172. thy own.
17
The verry next spring that that fiddle playd
Was, Blest be Sir John, my own true-love!
18
The very next spring that that fiddle playd
Was, Burn my sister for her sins!
42. Written at first my black heeld shoes.
122. swain.
172. thy own.